


His Mother's Son

by schweet_heart



Series: Merlin Fic [133]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arthur Knows, Canon Era, Difficult Pregnancy, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Death in Childbirth, Magical Pregnancy, Merlin's Magic Revealed, Minor Character Death, Mother-Son Relationship, POV Minor Character, Time Travel, Time Travel Fix-It
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-06
Updated: 2018-07-06
Packaged: 2019-06-06 04:00:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15186287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/schweet_heart/pseuds/schweet_heart
Summary: She has heard stories like this before, of course. Usually it is the hero’s decision, to live a fierce, brief life full of glory or to die unnoticed and unknown. Hers is a different choice.Written forthisKinks of Camelot prompt.





	His Mother's Son

**Author's Note:**

  * For [VerdantMoth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/VerdantMoth/gifts).



 

He will be beautiful, her son.

 

That much she has been promised already, by Nimueh and by the conviction in her own breast, but it is one thing to believe it with all her heart and quite another to see it with her eyes.

 

“The people will love you,” she whispers, staring at the apparition as it kneels before her. He is little more than a boy, really, fair-haired and blue-eyed, his colouring favouring his mother’s line rather than his father’s, soft curls catching the light. Yet there is something of Uther about him still, in the martial shape of his jaw and the aquiline nose, and she feels a momentary pang of fear for the future, knowing all the dangers he must face. Alone. “I cannot stay with you?”

 

He shakes his head. “You can go back,” he says gently. “You have that choice. But everything I am will be undone, and you will never have a child.”

 

She has heard stories like this before, of course. Usually it is the hero’s decision, to live a fierce, brief life full of glory or to die unnoticed and unknown. Hers is a different choice. She has no doubt that, in the future, no one will remember her next to this shining, immortal man who is to be her son, but it is her decision whether he will exist at all.

 

A braver mother would not hesitate. But she is tired, and she has never been eager to fall on a sword. It has been a long labour and her body is weak, her heartbeat fluttering madly inside her chest. She isn’t ready to die.

 

“Tell me,” she says, her voice barely above a murmur. The other figures in the room, blurred and indistinct, move through him like ghosts, and he bends closer. “Tell me about yourself.”

 

“I—I’m good with a sword,” he says, after a moment’s pause. “I’ve won many tournaments—”

 

“Not that,” she interrupts, and although his body appears translucent she thinks she can feel the coolness of his skin beneath her palm, the dampness of his cheek. “Tell me about _you_. What are you like?”

 

He blinks, then, as though confused. “I’ve been told I can be a bit of a prat,” he ventures finally, abashed, one side of his mouth lifting in a hesitant smile. She can see them now: the imperfections, the slightly crooked slant of his teeth and the bump of his nose. But these small flaws are like brush-strokes texturing fine canvas; they serve only to enhance the whole. “I try not to be.”

 

She bites back a smile at his tone—so very serious. “As long as you try,” she says, matching his gravity. “And what are your favourite hobbies? Do you have—” She looks at him, trying to guess his age, the things that might interest a boy like this. “Do you have many friends? A girl?”

 

The smile fades, the sunny countenance clouded. “It’s complicated,” is all he says, and she nods—isn’t it always, when you’re young. She allows him to change the subject, watching him flower under her attention like he’s been seeking it his whole life, this boy-king, this strange, miraculous child. She tells him about Tintagel, where she grew up, and about her two brothers, separated from her by many years now, one lost to death and the other to her marriage. “I’ve met them,” he says briefly of his uncles, and she wonders how, and why, and doesn’t ask.

 

He tells her about his childhood: the people he loves, the trials he has already faced. The way he speaks of his kingdom tells her more than his actual words, and she can see the emotion in his eyes, can read his thoughts clearly as they cross his face. He is like his father in that, too: unguarded, so very easily hurt.

 

“And you would give all of this up,” she asks, when he is done, “for me?”

 

He looks away. “You deserve to know the truth,” he says, and oh, yes—there is Uther’s voice, his stubbornness. “He should have told you all of it from the beginning.”

 

In the end, she takes his hand. They can both feel the moment drawing to a close, the pulse of her heartbeat loud in the silent room. It has been hours, and yet no time at all. Her son says haltingly, “I don’t want you to go.”

 

How had she ever thought it could be a choice?

 

“I will love you,” she tells him, with steady certainty, “all the days of your life.”

 

He hugs her tightly, thin and insubstantial now in her arms, and then steps away.

 

“Merlin,” she thinks she hears him sigh, the outline of his body blurring as he turns back into mist. “Thank you.”

 

Ygraine Pendragon closes her eyes, takes hold of her husband’s hand, and begins to push.

 


End file.
